Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Sloane
It’s been a couple of hours since I left Maddox’s place, and my body is still on high alert.
I can still feel the vibration in the air.
I can still feel him.
He didn’t physically touch me with those rough, player hands or with that full, smirking mouth that looked like they knew exactly how to make a woman beg.
And the fact that I’m thinking about his mouth at all is a problem.
Even more of a problem is that it isn’t just the physical I’m feeling here.
It’s more.
The imprint of Maddox Lasker is etched into every nerve ending like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
When I left his place, I came straight to the hotel Tessa booked for me, uncorked a vintage red someone had the forethought to leave me, and buried myself in work. I didn’t even bother to kick off my shoes or shed my blazer.
With the way I feel, though? I might as well still be in his doorway, staring down the bare chest of a man built like a weapon, and looking at me like I’m the enemy.
An enemy he wanted to kiss or kill but wasn’t sure which just yet.
Blowing out a hard breath, I put my laptop on the coffee table and stand to stretch the kinks that assault my neck.
I slip off my blazer, letting it fall onto the sofa like it weighs ten pounds. The rest of my armor follows—heels, earrings, watch.
Every piece that says: “I’m a Carrington. I’m an in control CEO.”
One by one, I strip them away until it’s just me in this hotel suite that costs a small fortune and yet feels like a cage.
Crossing to the bathroom, I flip on the light and brace my hands on the marble vanity, staring into the mirror.
I look the same, with the same sleek, dark blonde hair and serious expression. The same woman who doesn’t flinch, at least not on the outside.
But I see the difference in my eyes. The green irises won’t lie to me tonight. If the eyes are the window to the soul, my soul is tired, confused, and haunted.
I press a hand to my sternum, like I can settle the buzz still alive beneath my skin.
My heart won’t slow down and the burn he left behind isn’t on my body.
It’s in my bloodstream.
Jesus. Get it together, Sloane.
I flick the light off and move through the suite, bare feet silent against the thick carpet. I hit the remote, and the TV blares to life—some overly tanned couple shouting about trust issues while a pop remix screeches behind them.
Love Island.
God help me, but I love this shit.
Normally, I let this kind of chaos numb me out. Other people’s disasters, served up with a side of abs and accent drama.
But tonight it doesn’t land. I’m too keyed up. Too raw. My whole body hums with that scene, that apartment, that man.
Maddox didn’t back down. Not when I pushed, not when I stepped into his space, not even when I delivered the damn contract like a challenge.
He looked at me like I was fire.
And he looked like he wanted to burn.
I drop back onto the couch, stare blindly at the screen, and try to drown in the nonsense playing out in some island paradise.
But my pulse still races, my skin still tight.
Clenching my thighs together, I try to shove aside what this really is: me, not getting laid in far too long.
No one’s ever looked at me the way Maddox looked at me. Not with so much intensity that made me want to have angry sex against the door of his condo.
I rub my temples, pushing aside all thoughts of fucking one of my players.
Lord, my father is rolling in his grave right now if he knew where my thoughts were.
Well, that’s one way to cool down. Just think about dear old Dad and all the ways I can disappoint him.
“No, no, no. Not tonight, Satan.”
But as usual, Satan has other plans, and the memory of the first time I truly felt my father’s disappointment slithers through the cracks.
I’d made it to Nationals when I was sixteen in the senior division, which should’ve been a celebrated accomplishment.
My father didn’t sit with the other parents. Oh no, Victor Carrington made sure to stand behind the glass, arms crossed tight, wearing his expressionless owner’s face.
There was no clapping, no shouting, no telling me I had it in the bag.
Just those eyes that looked like mine, watchful.
Waiting.
I’d skated clean—technical, controlled, nearly flawless—and when I landed the final jump, I knew I’d scored high.
I gave the applauding crowd my best camera ready smile, but inside dread snaked its way into my chest.
Even though I’d skated better than my competitors, I knew it wouldn’t be enough for him.
When I skated over to where my coach stood, telling me what a great job I did, I looked around for my father, but he was already gone.
By the time I got back to the locker room, he’d texted one line:
You should’ve gone for the quad.
No good job. No pride for his daughter who was the youngest in her division at the time and well on her way to the Olympics.
Just a reminder that clean and perfect wasn’t enough unless it broke boundaries too.
That moment never left me.
I never made it to the Olympics because I’d stopped skating competitively the next year.
Instead, I thought if I learned his business, I’d earn his approval.
I chased that validation until the day he died.
With all of this ridiculous waiting around for Maddox to get his head out of his ass, I can practically feel my father’s disappointment from the grave.
The weight of all the uncertainty settles in my chest again, sharp and familiar. I sit with it.
Let it fester. Let it fuel me.
I reach for my laptop, dragging it onto my lap like it’ll anchor me. The Vipers roster is already open on the screen.
Scrolling through the names, I make notes—cap space, penalty minutes, performance ratings. Words blur. Numbers mean nothing.
Because the one name I need to see on the roster as active is the only yellow highlight at the top of the spreadsheet.
Contract: pending.
I stare at the words until they look like they’re no longer spelled correctly.
He’s the last piece. The one they all said I wouldn’t get.
I scroll again and again. Type. Delete. Re-type.
But my brain keeps replaying the moment in his doorway—him shirtless, arrogant, unreadable.
And then the flicker behind his eyes. The part he didn’t mean to show me. The part that made my heart catch and my stomach turn over.
I wanted to reach for him. Not to soothe. Not to control. But to feel the heat and the spark of electricity I saw in his gaze for a split second before he contained it.
My phone lights up with an email notification and the three text notifications I ignored earlier catch my eye.
They’re all stacked like bricks on my chest.
Two are from Dean, because of course he needs to remind me he’s watching.
Or to insinuate that he should have my job.
Dean: Status? Tell me he signed.
Dean: I want confirmation Lasker’s in. He’s not the only option.
“Oh yeah, Dean? Well, I want to rip your head off, but we can’t always get what we want.”
I angry tap out the lie he wants to hear.
Me: Negotiations ongoing. Will update you by tomorrow.
I don’t wait for his response. I already know what he’ll say. Some cold variation of don’t screw this up.
He won’t say please. He never does.
Tessa’s message, while still wanting to know about Maddox, didn’t tighten my muscles like Dean’s.
Tessa: Was it bad?
I hesitate. But I don’t want to lie to her.
Me: No signature. But he didn’t kick me out.
Tessa: So… progress. Do you need tequila or a punching bag?
A tiny laugh escapes, barely there, but it’s there. And it’s not the curated kind I use in press rooms.
This one’s real. Weak, wobbly. Human.
Me: I can only choose one?
Tessa: I’ll have both waiting when you get back.
Me: And this is why you’re stuck with me.
Tessa: I think I can handle that.
Tessa: Close the laptop and go get some sleep.
Me: LOL it’s like you know me.
The TV screeches into another commercial break, bright colors and bodies too shiny to be real.
I follow Tessa’s advice and close the laptop, setting it aside and numb out on reality TV for a while.
After I watch two episodes back to back, it’s nearly midnight, and while I’m tired as fuck, I’m still wired.
I walk over to the wall of glass overlooking Boston as the city sparkles outside the window.
Pressing my forehead to the cold pane of glass, I think that somewhere out there, Maddox is still awake. He strikes me as the kind of man who doesn’t sleep easy.
He’s pacing. Thinking. Stewing.
Maybe still shirtless.
God, get a grip.
My phone rattles on the coffee table and my stomach somersaults.
For some reason I know who it is before I check the screen.
Maddox.
When I grab my phone, I see his text on my lock screen.
There’s no hello, no lead-in.
Maddox: You want your signature. Meet me at the Common Ice Rink. 10pm tomorrow night.
My stomach drops. Then clenches. Then flips over completely.
I read it again. And again.
Like some lovesick teenager instead of a twenty-eight year old CEO of a hockey team.
And I need to start thinking like one.
I read it one more time from the lens of what I am. The owner in negotiations with a stubborn ass mule of a man.
He’s not surrendering. He’s pulling me into his world. Onto the ice. Out of my comfort zone and into his.
The businesswoman in me is annoyed at him barking orders at me. But the woman in me?
Well, I shouldn’t like it.
But I do.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I could say Fine. I could say I’ll be there.
I could say Fuck you.
But I don’t type anything.
Instead, I let the message glow against my skin like a dare. A warning.
Or a promise.
I step back from the window, heart hammering. I don’t know if I want to fight him or follow him into the dark.
Maybe both.
Tomorrow night, I’ll meet him at the rink.
And whatever happens next…
I know one thing for sure.
I won’t come out unchanged.